


Not from Ashes or from Dust

by AnachronisticVerbage



Series: That which makes it whole [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: BAMF Merlin (Merlin), But it’s temporary, Dark, Gen, Magic Revealed, Major character death - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 00:56:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21152930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnachronisticVerbage/pseuds/AnachronisticVerbage
Summary: Merlin dies. Merlin wakes back up.





	Not from Ashes or from Dust

He couldn’t speak, couldn’t _breathe_. Merlin never realized how much of him was magic until that moment, with a sluggishly bleeding hole at his trachea and another in the center of his spine.

_No_, Merlin realized in horror, the _same_ hole. The sword in his hand was sticky with blood from hilt to tip—and wasn’t _that_ something, that a sword forged in Kilgarrah’s breath didn’t permanently kill him. 

Not for a lack of trying, of course. He plunged the sword into the earth to clean it, leaning heavily against it.

The wound didn’t hurt much.

_Shock _Gaius would say. Arthur had _killed_ him._ Or tried to, _at any rate.

_Why hadn’t he died_? 

It didn’t matter now.

He had to—had Arthur told him to leave Camelot? Was he banished?

He couldn’t remember. All he could think of was that horrible glare and the wet squelch of a sword thrusting into his neck. 

_Oh_, breathed Merlin. _Right_. Arthur didn’t banish him because he thought he was dead.

Because he’d killed him.

“Right.” His voice sounded raspy and far too weak, but it made him feel real. “Right.”

He couldn’t go back to Camelot, to unending service and Gaius’s remonstrations and the Druid’s prophesied once and future king.

Not when that king had shoved a sword straight through him for untying a knot. 

Where else could he go, though, when he had all of Magic’s hopes riding in him?

The ground was wet with _so much blood._

He tried to pull the sword from it, noting with—_something_—that it had cut slightly into the bedrock. 

It was hard to get purchase. The ground was wet and sticky—it didn’t matter. 

“The sword in the stone my—“ a gasp— “arse.” _He’s not once and future anything. Not to_ _me_. 

Even thinking it felt like a betrayal.

Sword in hand, he stood straight—well, straighter. It hurt, but less than it should, considering the cuts on his shoulder and abdomen, the hole running from the base of his neck to the small of his back. _Was that magic, or shock? Why could he move?_

It didn’t matter. He had to—twilight was creeping in, and he was wet with bloo—he didn’t want to think about it. 

He needed to move.

_One foot in front of the other. _

If he just did that he’d get to—somewhere. Not Camelot. Why did he keep having to remind himself?

Arthur killed him. He couldn’t go back.

**Author's Note:**

> If a warlock dies in a forest, and their killer denies it, did they really die?  
Or: Does it count as necromancy if your soul is a force of nature?


End file.
